Clash by Night (9 page)

Harris was left in darkness, alone with his plans and his thoughts.
 

The next morning he was up early, studying the blueprints Patric Thibeau had given him. It was already hot in the barn, and sweat trickled down his arms and between his shoulder blades as he made notes in the margins with a pencil. His back was itchy, and he scratched it absently until he realized that the irritant was random sticks of straw, plastered to his skin with perspiration. Sighing, he bent closer to the drawings, then started when Langtot’s horse, still loose from its exercise, put its wet velvet nose against the nape of his neck.

“Well, boy,” he said, craning his head around to look at it, “what do you think? The side entrance, or the rear one?”

The horse, who apparently spoke only French, stared back at him blankly.

“Ah, what do you know?” Harris muttered, throwing down his pencil and putting his chin in his hand.

The Duclos woman kept drifting across his mind, breaking his concentration. He’d never particularly cared for redheads; the typical combination of carrot top and freckles always reminded him of saucer eyed Orphan Annie in the comic strip. But Laura Duclos’ hair was the color of a well used copper penny, and her skin a flawless, alabaster white. Her green gaze had held his with a guileless candor when she spoke to him, and he felt he’d scored a goal when her serious expression had at last relaxed into that final, hard won smile.

He shook his head and closed his eyes. Stop thinking about her, man, he instructed himself. Her husband has been dead less than a year and you have a job to do. Get on with it.

He picked up his pencil again and went back to work.
 

* * *

In the hospital at Bar-le-Duc, Becker looked up from his work as Hesse entered his office with a stack of papers for him to sign.

The colonel rose, as if he’d been waiting for the younger man, and said, “Just leave those on the blotter, I’ll attend to them later. I’m going to have a look around and then take these back to the library.” He indicated two of the books he’d borrowed, picking them up from the shelf under the window. “If DeGaulle arrives with a battalion of the Free French to take over the area you’ll find me at the school across the way,” he added, in the slightly satirical tone that could still confuse his aide after almost a year in his service. It was sometimes impossible to tell whether Becker was serious or not.

“Yes, sir,” Hesse responded, usually a safe reply. He wondered briefly, as Becker walked past him, why the colonel hadn’t given him the books to return, as such errands were usually part of his duties. Then he realized that Becker wanted to see that librarian again.

Becker was obviously drawn to the woman and Hesse couldn’t understand why. She was a plain little thing, hardly the sort that attracted a man’s instant attention. But then Becker was an odd one himself, always thinking, reading, staring out of windows at nothing. When not engaged in the business of running his post he preferred to be left alone, and that suited his aide just fine.
 

Hesse straightened the stack of correspondence on the large pine table desk and filled the inkwell, lining up the fountain pens in the holder next to it. Despite Becker’s peculiarities Hesse liked the commandant; he treated his inferiors well and, unlike some others of his rank, didn’t expect his aide to be a mind reader. But the corporal often found himself wondering what went on behind his commander’s opaque brown eyes. Becker shared very little of himself with anyone, which made his interest in the Frenchwoman even more difficult to fathom. Hesse couldn’t believe that Becker, who seemed so self sufficient, was lonely, especially married to the patrician beauty whose photograph Hesse had seen. But then, it was a long time between conjugal visits during a war. And maybe Becker just wanted to discuss literature with the book lady after all. He had little enough outlet for his lively intellect in the Meuse; Hesse knew that he was well educated and must miss the cultural pursuits of his usual circle.
 

The corporal mentally shook his head, recapping the ink bottle and storing it in a closet. The commandant’s chosen companions were none of his business, and poking into the private affairs of officers was one sure way to get into trouble. He left the office and scanned the lobby, looking around for the courier from the Chancellery in Berlin, due to arrive that day with Becker’s mail. Like the good soldier he was, he squelched his curiosity and tended to his assigned task, putting the matter of Becker’s penchant for Lysette Remy out of his mind.

Hesse turned and looked up the side corridors, still searching for the overdue mailman. He was hoping for a letter from his mother back in the Ruhr Valley. He missed his home and large family and spent most of his off duty time writing to them. He’d had a girl back in Vitten, but she hadn’t answered his mail recently. His brother had written that she’d been seeing someone else, a wealthy widower with children who had avoided military service.
 

That’s what happened sometimes when you left, Hesse thought philosophically and without much regret, they turned to someone who was there.
 

 
There was no sign of his quarry, but as he swung around to scan the entrance once again he caught sight of something else that gave him pause. Near the front door a student nurse was loading a supply cart with bandages from one of the linen rooms. A white-coated orderly hovered at her side, obviously pressing his attentions on the girl, who continued to work while trying, politely but firmly, to get rid of him.

Hesse observed the scene in pantomime for a few moments until he could stand it no longer. Approaching the pair, he called out in his pidgin French, “You, there, you have work to do?”

The man jumped and turned, alarmed by the German voice.

“Yes, sir,” he stammered, almost afraid to look at the corporal addressing him.

“Then go do it.
Now
,” Hesse said harshly, and the man hurried away, shooting one backward glance at his former prey.

Brigitte Duclos stood uncertainly next to the loaded cart, relieved and at the same time annoyed that she was now in debt to this foreigner, this intruder. Hesse faced her, his light eyes searching her face.
 

“Are you all right,
mademoiselle
?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she replied coldly. “He was only talking.” She was a sweet faced, delicate blonde, her soft pastel coloring enhanced by the striped pinafore she wore. Her gaze was level, with no hint of servility, and he observed that her answer conveyed the impression that he had overreacted.

“It seemed that he was interfering,” Hesse said stiffly. “I’m sorry if I alarmed you unnecessarily.”
 

 
His French, while far less sophisticated than Becker’s, got the message across and Brigitte felt churlish. Whatever their relative positions, this boy had been trying to help her.

“You didn’t alarm me,” she said civilly. “Thank you for the assistance, he can be an awful pest.” She used the word for housefly,
mouche
, to describe her antagonist. The tension broken, Hesse grinned at her. She did not smile back.

“You are a student here?” he asked, undaunted, gesturing to her apron and her plain white cap, unbanded to indicate her undergraduate status.

“Yes.” She closed the door of the linen closet and turned the cart to face the hall.

His eyes moved to the name tag pinned to her breast pocket. “Duclos,” he said. “Your father is the mayor of Fains, the village just south of here?”
 

“That’s right,” she responded, mentally counting the stacks of bandages she’d assembled, not looking at him.

Hesse’s thoughts raced. Her father was a collaborator, yet she had been noticeably distant throughout their exchange. Perhaps she didn’t share her father’s pro-German leanings. He suddenly realized that her feelings on that subject interested him very much.

“May I go, Corporal?” she asked quietly. “These things are needed on the ward.” She began to push the cart ahead, and he put out his hand to stop its movement. She looked up, startled, and their eyes locked.

“So you are in the hospital every day?” he persisted.
 

“Not every day,” Brigitte answered, her face growing warm in spite of herself under his intense inspection. “I have a duty rotation, like all the other students, some nights, some weekends, some days off.” She knew she shouldn’t be giving him this information, but he could find it out for himself by asking a few questions and she thought it best not to antagonize him.

He nodded. “So perhaps we will meet again,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Brigitte replied neutrally, moving forward as he finally stepped aside. Hesse watched as she walked away, pushing the little trolley in front of her. Even the long pale blue uniform skirt and thick soled white shoes could not disguise her slim hips and shapely legs.
 

It was easy enough to check schedules and assignments in the hospital; in his capacity as Becker’s aide Hesse had access to almost everything.

He would make sure that he saw her again.

* * *

Laura paused in the doorway of the library and stuck her head into the room.

“No customers?” she said to Lysette Remy, who was standing behind her massive desk, sorting through a pile of volumes and marking them with a rubber stamp. The book-lined chamber was empty.

Lysette looked up. “No,” she said, glancing into the hall behind Laura before she added quietly, “we won’t see the kids again until the fall term begins. The school is right across the street from the German headquarters so their parents are keeping them home. I don’t think they want them to be around here until it’s necessary.”

“Can you blame them?” Laura said tartly. She held up a stack of report forms and said, “I’m filling these out with the final marks for the summer session and then taking the rest of the day off. You might as well do the same.”
 

“Maybe I will,” Lysette said, brushing back a wayward strand of hair which had escaped her customary bun.

“I’ll be down in the office if you need me,” Laura said, turning toward the corridor. Then she stopped short as she confronted Becker, who had come up silently behind her.

Becker took a step backward and clicked his heels, bowing his head. “Madame Duclos,” he murmured.

“Colonel,” Laura replied icily, breezing past him. She wondered what he was doing there, and why he was alone, without the young corporal who followed him around like a faithful shepherd dog. She fled down the hall, putting as much distance between herself and the German as fast as she could. Once she rounded the corner of the corridor she halted to catch her breath. Relax, she told herself. The man is unnerving but he isn’t psychic. He can’t tell by looking at you that you’re hiding an American marine in Pierre Langtot’s barn.

That reminded her of the errands she had to run that day and she hurried off again to post her grades.

Becker walked into the library and stopped before Lysette, who had witnessed the little scene in the doorway.

“Your friend hates me,” he said bluntly.

Surprised by his candor, Lysette replied in kind. “She would like to see you marching out of France.”

“She would like to see me roasting on a spit,” Becker countered wearily, removing his cap and smoothing his hair with his other hand.

Lysette covered her mouth with her fist, and it was a moment before he realized that she was trying not to giggle.

“You find that amusing?” he said, smiling slightly as he deposited his books on the table before her.

“No,” she said quickly, and then added, “I mean, yes, but...”

He smiled wider at her confusion.

Lysette grabbed the books and said quickly, “Did you enjoy these?” He had returned
Therese Raquin
and
Madame Bovary
.

He made a dismissive gesture. “I think I’ve read enough about unhappily married Frenchwomen for the moment. It’s not a subject which particularly interests me.”
 

He was glancing around the room and missed her change of expression.

“I’m sorry you found them dull,” she murmured, turning to place the books on a shelf behind her.
 

“I didn’t say that,” Becker replied, looking back at her.

She shelved the books and turned to him. She glanced up and their eyes met.

“How did you come to work here?” he asked softly, as if he had the right to know, and she answered promptly.

“The man I cleaned for sent me to school.”

“The man you cleaned for?”

“Yes, I was raised in an orphanage and he was a patron of the nuns who ran it. They sent me to him as a maid.”

“What happened to your parents?” Becker said.

“My mother died when I was born, and my father went back to Poland. He left me with the Sisters.”

“So your father was Polish,” Becker said, putting his hands behind his back and striding to the wall of windows on their left.

“Yes.”

He turned to face her. The sun streaming through the dusty glass behind him made an ebony helmet of his rich black hair. “During the fall of Warsaw I saw Poles on horseback charge tanks.”